


if you need me, let me know

by segmentcalled



Series: if so, come on, let's go [1]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Communication, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 13:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20292247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/segmentcalled/pseuds/segmentcalled
Summary: So:You went back with Griffin, and Russ and Justin and Simone and Tara and Chris, but they’re all still in Justin’s room continuing to get a well-justified and well-earned amount of drunk. Good for them. You’d made it to somewhere around tipsy before quitting for the night. Griffin’s — well, you’re not sure about Griffin. Griffin is currently sitting in the middle of his hotel bed with his arms wrapped around his knees and looks about a half-second from flying acrobatically off the fucking handle.





	if you need me, let me know

**Author's Note:**

> _if you need me, let me know, gonna be around_  
_if you got no place to go when you're feeling down_  
_if you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown_  
_honey, i'm still free, take a chance on me_  
\- [take a chance on me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-crgQGdpZR0), abba
> 
> content warning for some oblique references to the late-2017 polygon state of affairs
> 
> did you know take a chance on me was the first theme song for mbmbam even though they weren't supposed to be using it sdkfjghsfdk

It’s been a rough week. Rough couple of weeks.

You went back with Griffin, and Russ and Justin and Simone and Tara and Chris, but they’re all still in Justin’s room continuing to get a well-justified and well-earned amount of drunk. Good for them. You’d made it to somewhere around tipsy before quitting for the night. Griffin’s — well, you’re not sure about Griffin. Griffin is currently sitting in the middle of his hotel bed with his arms wrapped around his knees and looks about a half-second from flying acrobatically off the fucking handle.

You sit down cautiously at the edge of the bed. Griffin had started looking fairly anxious, picking at his cuticles and going all glassy-eyed, and you’d asked him if he wanted to get some air and he nodded and led you to his room and now you’re here. The air conditioner is rattly and the sounds of the street below make it all the way to your ears and, and you have absolutely no idea what to do. It’s too quiet and too loud at the same time. You can hear Griffin’s jagged breathing.

“Griffin,” you say softly, because it’s unbearable to listen to him battling back a panic attack. He looks up at you, wide-eyed and miserable, and you — god. You want to — to hug him, to hold your arms out and let him curl into you and keep him close, give him shelter from this, from all the things he’s feeling right now.

“Sorry,” he says, and it comes out kind of choked. You know Griffin’s got anxiety, he talks about it plenty, but you’ve never _seen_ it like this, never come face-to-face with someone else’s anxiety attack in such a fashion.

“Don’t be,” you say, still softly, afraid of being too loud, of moving too fast. “What do you need?”

He drags his hands over his face, pushing his glasses up his forehead. “God. I don’t even know.”

You’ve kept an eye on Griffin this week. Well, probably everyone has. He’s been projecting jittery-nervous energy so hard that it’s quite near contagious, or would be if that wasn’t the general mood anyway.

“Do you have, uh. Meds or something?”

“Shouldn’t take ‘em if I’ve been drinking. I’d like to be able to, like, think coherently. I don’t think either way I’m sleeping for a while, so.” He gives a shaky sort of sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Griffin peeks at you from between his fingers, then takes his hands away from his face. “I mean, nothing you don’t already know,” he says, deeply fatigued. “I’m pissed and tired and hurt and upset and it’s _fucking garbage_.”

You nod. It is absolutely fucking garbage.

“I dunno, Patrick,” he sighs. “I’ll be alright.”

“Yeah,” you say, because what else are you going to say? “You’re allowed to be upset first, though.”

“It’s just —” He drags a hand through his hair. “I dunno. There’s a lot of things to be really fucking mad about and I’m really fucking mad about all of them.”

“Me too,” you admit, looking at your hands. It’s all been sort of simmering inside you, angry and indignant and horrified.

Silence falls between you again, heavy and uncomfortable. There’s so much you wish you knew how to say. So much you can’t figure out how to put into words. This past year has been the wildest of your life and you can still hardly believe that this is what you’re doing on the daily. That you’re even here in this room with Griffin right now is something that 2013 Pat would have never believed. Seeing him upset like this breaks your fucking heart.

He sniffles, behind you, and you tense. You’re afraid to look at him; you’re more afraid not to.

His hands are over his face again, glasses on top of his head, curled in on himself with such tension that it looks like it hurts.

“Griffin,” you say, once again, and this time he doesn’t move to look at you. Shit. “Do you — shit, do you want me to leave?”

“No,” he says quickly, alarmed, jerking his head towards you to stare at you wide-eyed.

You take a deep breath. Bite the bullet. “Do you want me over there?”

He chews on his lip. Nods.

You toe your shoes off so you’re not stepping on the blankets with them and then carefully fold your legs up onto the bed, scoot over towards him, and as soon as you’re close enough to offer him an extended arm for a hug, he barnacles himself to you.

You hold him close and try not to revel in it too hard. He’s shaky but he clings to you tight, hands clutching at the back of your shirt. He’s so warm. You’ve never hugged Griffin McElroy before, you shook his hand once, mostly you just professionally don’t touch, but now here he is right up against you with his arms around you like you’re the only solid thing in the world left for him to hang onto.

You’re pretty sure he’s crying a little. His breath is hot and humid into your shoulder. You cautiously, so cautiously, take his glasses off the top of his head and set them aside so you can card your fingers through his hair. It’s short and coarser than yours and he shudders and pushes his face harder against you at the touch. You take this as encouragement — you hope it’s encouragement — and sort of scritch at his scalp and he makes this small choked sound that makes you freeze.

“Sorry,” he says, muffled into your shirt, “‘s nice, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmur, and keep doing it. It’s been… a long time, since you’ve held someone like this. Even a friend. Since anyone decided that they wanted to spend time voluntarily getting up in your personal space.

Griffin calms soon enough, or at least enough to unbury his face from your shoulder and sit back a little, drag the back of his hand over his eyes. His legs are draped over yours, perpendicular, and he gives you a little nervous-awkward smile but doesn’t move away.

“Didn’t, uh, mean to cry all over you there,” he says, wry. “Sorry. Thank you.”

“‘Course, Griffin,” you say, too softly, too tenderly. “Whatever you need.”

And maybe you’re showing your hand a little, and maybe that’s — maybe that’s not appropriate right now. Under the circumstances. Or ever. But he’s not moving away, he’s studying you with this faint smile on his lips _Jesus Christ Patrick stop looking at his lips_ —

The problem is, the problem is that you’ve been crushing on Griffin since years before you even met him, one of those goddamn parasocial crushes, and then you started working with him and it got _worse_ and now you’re sitting here like a dumbass with Griffin half in your lap and you don’t even know what the protocol is for this, what’s the protocol for this?

Does he even like men?

Fuck, that’s not the _point_.

“Are you handling things alright? You’ve been awful quiet,” Griffin says, like he’s pretending that he didn’t just cry a wet spot into your t-shirt.

“I don’t think that’s all that out of the norm,” you point out.

Griffin shrugs. He still has an arm loosely around your waist. You still have an arm loosely around his shoulders. You are very close to him. “I’ve seen you chatty,” he says.

“Sometimes there’s just nothing good to say. I don’t want to speak out of turn. So.” You shrug, too.

“Fair enough,” Griffin says. He’s looking at you like there’s more he wants to say. You hope you’re not blushing. You’re probably blushing. Your capillaries have never once been on your side. “You wanna go back?”

You shrug again. The answer is, admittedly, no, for a lot of reasons, but you don’t want to say _can I just stay here and be close to you for the next, I dunno, six to eight business weeks_, so you say nothing at all.

But Griffin laughs. “Yeah, me either. You can chill here, if you want? I’ve got nowhere to be. Not gonna kick you out, if you want somewhere quiet but not alone.”

Fucking Christ, he’s got you dead to rights. You’re so grateful, you could kiss him — _no! nope! this is not the time to think about kissing Griffin, dear god_. “Okay,” you say. He’s still not moving away. You’re staying as still as you possibly can, terrified to accidentally signal to him that you might want him to move, when was the last time someone touched you like they meant it, like they wanted the contact, might even want the contact from _you specifically?_

You want him worse than you’ve ever wanted anything in your whole life.

So you’re selfish: you lean forward and put your forehead against his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch away, like you were afraid he might. His hand goes to rest light on the back of your neck; he pushes your hair out of the way to run his fingers over your skin and you hope to God he doesn’t hear the sharp breath you draw but there is no way he couldn’t have. But he doesn’t pull back, just strokes his fingers over the nape of your neck and you go as still and pliant as a scruffed kitten.

Maybe you should be saying words about this. Almost certainly you should be saying words about this. But you can’t imagine that if you tried to speak that your words would come out as anything other than _please, Griffin_, and you don’t even know what you’d be begging for. (Anything.) (Anything at all, whatever he’s willing to give you, you’d take it _gratefully_.)

“You sure you’re okay?” he says softly.

“Prob’ly about the same amount as you are,” you mumble, eyes closed. “Wait. Maybe that’s an asshole thing to say.”

“Nah. I get it. That anxiety life, right?”

“Mmhm,” you sigh, as he rubs his thumb over the tense muscles at the back of your neck. He huffs a short exhale of a laugh, and you can’t even bother to mind because it’s nice and it feels nice and he’s nice and you’re warm and he’s warm and you like him so very badly that you’d like to memorize every single aspect of this moment and file it away for when it must inevitably end but you’re not gonna be the one to end it.

“What’s on your mind?” Griffin says, and your heart skips a beat in immediately-onset anxiety.

You don’t know what the right answer to this question is.

“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” is what you finally settle on, and he snickers.

“I get the impression you’re not great at talking about your feelings, Gill,” Griffin says cheerfully, and takes you by the chin and tilts your head up. You stare at him, dumbstruck, and he laughs at you. “I touched the back of your neck and you acted like you got hit with a tranquilizer dart, c’mon, you can’t even pretend to be coy.”

“I’ve never claimed to be coy a single day in my life,” you say.

“Alright, no to coy, but yes to _evasive_,” Griffin says, and you sigh.

“Call me out, why don’t you.” He’s still holding your face.

“Allow me to administer a survey, then,” Griffin says. “Do you like me-like me, check yes or no.”

You make a sort of strangled sound and stare at him.

Griffin, infinitely patient, releases your face, but says, “If yes, fuckin’ sweet, let’s talk ‘bout it. If no, cool cool cool, I’ll get outta your face as requested.”

“Talk about it?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah, of course,” Griffin says. “I like you but I want to be _responsible_ about it, like, if you’re not interested I’ll back the fuck off and we never have to talk about it again. And if you _are_ then we’re not gonna jump into it ass-first. Y’know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” you say. And then again, “Yeah.” And then you gather all your nerves and manage to say, “I like you so _much_,” and the smile that appears on Griffin’s face is brighter than fuckin’ _sunshine_.

“Oh, god, I hoped so,” he says, and touches your cheek. “Like the kind where you want to date me?”

“Yes, yeah, yes, one thousand percent,” you say, a little breathless.

He strokes his thumb over the probably-kinda-scratchy scruff of your beard and you lean into the touch. “You know I’m not leaving Austin,” he says, with concern.

“I know.”

“Are you okay with doing the distance thing?”

“We can figure it out, I’m sure. Have you been in long-distance relationships before?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Good. That makes one of us,” you say, with a little smile. “I’m sure I’ll pick it up. I’ve got Skype.”

“It’s just — y’know. Lots of communication and different forms of intimacy,” he says. You wink at him, and he laughs. “Exactly.”

“I’m good with that,” you say.

“What else are you good with?” Griffin teases, and you tilt your chin up, lock eyes with him, and you swear to god his breath catches.

“Are we gonna do this?” you say.

“What’s ‘this’ consist of?”

“God, Griffin, anything you fuckin’ _want_,” you say softly.

Griffin grins, bright and pleased, and says, “Well, fuck, Patrick, you really like me that much?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I really do. Will you kiss me?”

“Will you be my boyfriend?” he says back.

“Yes,” you say.

“Yes,” he says, and kisses you.

He is almost painfully gentle, the way he touches you. He cups your face in his hands and presses soft lips to yours and you give a soft exhale, let him take the lead and kiss you over and over, slow and sweet, as you wrap your arms around his waist and hold him close.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit, to figure out what you like; as soon as Griffin pushes his hands into your hair you clutch at him more tightly, and when he gives an experimental gentle tug you give this sort of whimper that probably translates to the exact number of minutes how long it’s been since you’ve been touched like someone wants you. It doesn’t help that Griffin’s fucking excellent to kiss. He uses maybe a little more tongue than you’re used to, sucks on your lips and tests how to get a response out of you; at a first guess you’d say he probably likes to use his mouth and you somehow aren’t surprised by that at all.

He very politely pushes on your shoulder in an indication that, if you’re so inclined, he might not mind getting you on your back. You go easily, pull him down with you, fall over giggling together with your hands on his hips and his hand on your cheek. He’s fucking gorgeous, and now that you’re allowed to think so you take a long moment to just look at him, trace your fingers over the planes of his face. He’s not been especially diligent about shaving, either, the past week, and so he’s kinda scruffy too, taking some of the ‘boyish’ but not the ‘charm’ out of him. Having his full attention on you like this is _intense_, but he just sits back and smiles and lets you look at him. Looks at you right back.

You let your hand fall to his shoulder, to his chest, rubbing slow circles with your thumb over his shirt.

“Hi,” he says, and boops your nose.

“Hi,” you say back, grinning like an absolute dork, you’re sure. “I like you.”

“I like you too,” he says, and god that _smile_ of his. “You really want to be my boyfriend? Like, actually for real-for real?”

“I wouldn’t make that shit up, Griffin,” you say. You move your hand to his waist. “Also, like, dude, you’re a fuckin’ catch.” Griffin snorts. “Oh, don’t give me that, c’mon, you’re like the funniest and smartest and hottest guy I know. I’ve been into you for fucking ages.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m super not.”

“Oh my god,” Griffin groans, “wait how long have you listened to my _podcasts_.”

“That’s beside the point!” you say.

“So a long time.”

“Shut _up_, I like you as a whole person now, not just your podcast personification, you’re fuckin’ great and I think you should kiss me more, if you’re interested in that.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty interested,” Griffin says. “I just — I dunno — just wanted to double check.”

“Check all the times you need,” you say. “My answer’s not gonna stop being yes. So long as you’re sure, too.”

“I am _extremely_ sure,” Griffin says. He puts his hands on your shoulders. “Dunno if you’ve noticed, Patrick, but you’re stupid hot.”

“What!”

He leans down to kiss your jaw. “Platonic fuckin’ ideal of a jawline, right here. And you look _real_ good with long hair. And your whole — c’mon, Pat, your whole skinny goth gamer thing _works_ for me.”

“Thanks. Really flattering summary of my style.”

“Mm. You’re welcome,” Griffin says, and kisses you again. He doesn’t hold back this time, shoves one hand into your hair and balances himself with the other, and you hook your leg around him to pull him against you and he hums appreciatively when you’re pressed flush against each other. God it feels good. God you wish you could stop fucking whimpering at everything he does that you like because you like _everything_ that he does and it’s goddamn embarrassing to be making this much noise without anything below your waist actively in the equation.

He dips his head to kiss your neck, lick your throat, leave little affectionate nips that set you gasping.

“By the way,” he says, between kisses. “Just some lil’ ground rules. Don’t pull my hair, you can pet it like you did before, that’s cool. I don’t usually bottom, like, I’m pretty flexible — figuratively, anyway — but I definitely, uh, prefer to top.”

“That works out well,” you murmur, and Griffin pulls back to grin at you. You steal another kiss. “I, uh, _really_ like my hair pulled. And. probably no visible bruises. But. Like those too.”

“Oh, you like it like that, huh?” Griffin’s full-on smirking now.

“What of it, McElroy,” you grumble.

“Hot,” he says, quite cheerfully, and yanks your head back with the hand he still has in your hair and you whine and arch up against him. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, and drops down to get his mouth on your neck again. “You’re _into-it_-into-it.”

“Yeah, fuck, Griffin, that’s what I fuckin’ said,” you say, your voice cracking at the end of it as he pushes your shirt collar out of the way to bite at the base of your neck.

“How far d’you want to take this tonight?” Griffin says, pushing your hair behind your ear.

“Remember how I said anything you want?” you say. “Because, uh, that was not an exaggeration.”

“Well, shit, Pat, I wasn’t going to take that at face value,” Griffin says. “Explicit and enthusiastic and _specific_ consent is what we need in this house.”

“Okay, here: if you want to have sex with me, I would _absolutely_ like to have sex with you, though gonna let you know I am finicky as _hell_ about some shit and, uh, allergic to latex, so like, y’know.”

“That’s a pain,” Griffin says.

“Yeah. I mean, if that makes it a nope that’s fine, I’m really — I swear to god I’m totally good with whatever you want to do, seriously.”

“Yeah, ‘course. I’m just thinking. Opinion on blowjobs without a condom?”

“Uh. Favorable,” you say, and Griffin laughs.

“God, I _like_ you. I’d like to go down on you, then, if you’re good with that? Oh _fuck_ if you’d showered I could eat your ass. Damn. Well. File that one away. If that’s something you like?”

“The specific things I’m finicky about all involve my ass but as long as you, like, don’t expect me to do anything about it I’m _super fucking into it_, I’m just real fuckin’ weird about it. Which means. Yes. I like it very much. But I can’t do it for you, full stop, and I can’t fuck you or finger you without a condom.”

“Good to know,” Griffin says, kissing your cheek. “But you’re good with it if I suck your dick?”

“More than.”

“So, like… wanna make out and then let me blow you?”

“Fuck yes, Griffin.”

He pushes both hands into your hair and kisses you slow but with _intent_. He rolls his hips down against you and you draw a shuddery breath and cling to him, rock up in tandem with him, and when he groans it is the most satisfying moment of your life, the way his voice pitches up breathy at the end. You want him to push you down into this bed and _take_ what he wants from you, want to take the honest force of his desire and give back in kind.

But what you get from him is even better than that. He teases out little whimpers from you as he discovers exactly what gets you there; he pushes his hands up your shirt, thumbs at your nipples; he grinds against you and makes you moan.

You want everything from him, everything all at once, and yet at the same time you’d be more than happy just to keep kissing him and kissing him until the sun comes up. He asks if you’ll take your shirt off and you give a breathy _yeah_ and he sits back to give you space. You slip your fingers under the hem of his shirt and raise your eyebrows and he gives an almost-shy smile and goes for the buttons.

You’ve had idle daydreams about kissing Griffin — you sort of figured everyone did? — but it’s not half as incredible as the real thing. He lets you touch him, run your hands down his chest and down to his hips and over his back and pull him back down against you. He sighs and pushes his hands into your hair again and you hold him close, hands splayed out on the small of his back.

Griffin tugs your head back and presses his lips to your neck and you gasp — fuck, you are such an open goddamn book as soon as anyone lays their hands on you, you’re _lonely_ and needy and have obvious and common interests and Griffin sets to work on sucking dark bruises into your chest and you’re moaning and arching up towards him but he’s not close enough for you to grind on so you’re just squirming around helplessly under him as he devotedly pursues his task.

He presses openmouthed kisses down the center of your chest and your stomach and pauses just above your bellybutton to look up at you, lips parted, face flushed, so fucking gorgeous.

“Can I suck your dick?”

“_Please_,” you say, more breathy than you’d really intended to but, fuck, whatever, it doesn’t matter, he grins and goes for the zipper of your jeans and shucks your pants and underwear down your thighs and wow okay the way he looks at you is — it’s — like he’s amazed, like he’s so fucking happy to be here, like he feels the same way you’re feeling about him. He glances at your face one more time, like he’s double-checking that you’re _really goddamn fucking sure_ about this, and must like what he sees, because he smiles and then presses his mouth to the head of your dick in an approximation of a kiss; it’s heat and contact and so fucking _soft_, hot wet tongue and lips and hardly even any pressure, just present, and you whine.

He looks up at you, not pulling away, and puts his forearm across your hips, holding you down so you can’t buck up against him, so of course you immediately try to and he’s stronger than you anticipated — or maybe you’re just less strong — and he keeps you still as he takes you into his mouth and you moan outright. He digs his fingers into your hip.

You shouldn’t, honestly, even bother to be impressed that he’s caught onto you so fast, you’re pretty sure at this point he could figure out what you’re into from outer space, but it feels… well, it feels real good, to be held like this. You’ve always had some sort of thing for being held down, pinned, whatever, and okay maybe it’s half ‘cause you also really like pressure in the form of a weighted blanket or a cat lying on your chest, it makes you feel so much more present, but like this with Griffin it’s amplified hundredfold. Even just an arm over your hips. Maybe you’re just easy, maybe you just want someone to hold you down and make you come, but either way _fuck_ it feels so good.

He doesn’t fuck around, Griffin doesn’t, doesn’t waste time before you’re panting and saying breathless things like _oh jesus christ fuck yes Griffin oh god oh fuck oh Griffin_ —

He holds your hips down with both hands as your begging breaks off and you grab at your own hair and come down his throat, holy _shit_ he doesn’t even fucking flinch. When he pulls away, he looks at you from beneath those long pretty eyelashes of his and smiles.

“Damn, Gill,” he says, in that smug-cheerful way of his, “hope we don’t have neighbors.”

“Shut _up_,” you groan, flinging your arm over your eyes. He laughs and crawls over to you, tugs your arm away and holds your hand in both of his.

“You okay?” he says.

“Yeah, fuck, Griffin, gimme two seconds to catch my breath, that was _incredible_.”

You only realize he looked worried as it leaves him, as the crease between his eyebrows smooths and tension drops from his shoulders. He squeezes your hand. “Take your time,” he says. You roll onto your side and curl towards him, push your face against his leg, which happens to be the part of him that is closest to you

“I should get these jeans off before I get all tangled up,” you mumble against his thigh, and he laughs.

“Go for it,” Griffin says, and you push yourself up into a sitting position with a groan and pull your pants off from where they’ve ended up around your calves. Griffin watches with amusement, with fondness, and tugs you in to kiss you again.

You run your hand down his front, politely giving him ample time to stop you before you palm at him over his pants — he doesn’t — he moans against your mouth, a sound you’d never thought to picture from him before but good _Lord_.

“What d’you want?” you say between kisses, applying pressure for him to grind against and he groans.

“Fuck, Pat, whatever you’re into, lemme get my pants off first, alright?”

You give him space to do that, then come back to his side, three-quarters facing him, drape one of your legs over his and kiss him again, and again and again and again, whisper _may I?_ and he nods, parted lips catching against yours. You don’t try to chase him to a finish line; now that you’ve come, you’re not frantic anymore, just work your hand on him slow and steady, tease those gorgeous sounds out of him, kiss him ‘till he’s not even kissing back, just gasping against your mouth.

He moans your name when he comes. It is quite possibly the best moment of your life to date.

You’re both quiet for a long moment, after that. Griffin licks his lips and looks at you, almost nervously, and then says, “It’s been a long day, and I want to shower. You’re — you’re invited, if you want. Or whatever. No pressure. You can stay here if you don’t want to join. I mean. You don’t have to stay at all —”

“Griffin,” you say softly, and touch his cheek. “I’d like to stay as long as you’ll keep me around.”

He kisses you. It’s not so fervent, desperate, as it was before; it’s a soft slow thing, and when he pulls back you’re breathless for entirely new reasons.

“I mean it,” you say, because he’s still not saying anything. “I, uh.” You pause, look at your hands, continue to resist the urge to wipe your palm off on the blankets. “I know under the circumstances — like — I think it makes sense, if you’re worried about, y’know, since you’re sort of in a position of authority, I guess? But, like, I wanna assure you that, uh, that has no bearing on my feelings for you. I dunno if you were actually worried about that. But. If you were. I figured it bears saying.”

Griffin doesn’t say anything; he leans over and hugs you, pushes his face against the side of your neck. You think it might be a thank you.

“For what it’s worth,” Griffin says, finally, “I didn’t think — I didn’t _really_ think that that was the case.”

“I know,” you say. “Anxiety life, as you said. But I like you a real lot, genuinely.”

“Good,” he says. “‘Cause I like you a real lot, too. Do you want to shower with me?”

“I’d like nothing better,” you say, and he laughs, a sound of pure joy.

Griffin’s shorter than you, but not actually by all that much. An inch, maybe two. It surprises you every time you see him in person, because you expect him to be short, what with that whole sweet-baby-brother shtick, but he barely has to tilt his head up to kiss you.

“Can I wash your hair?” Griffin says, and of course you nod. He taps your shoulder, presses down just a little, and you can take a hint. You go to your knees, lean your head against Griffin’s thigh.

You close your eyes and let him work his fingers through your hair. Sigh from somewhere deep in your bones as water and bubbles sluice down your back, as he rubs your scalp and the back of your neck, chasing the tension away before it creeps back into your shoulders. The mysterious hotel shampoo and conditioner smells herbal but not bad, and something about being on your knees in front of Griffin with his hands on you makes you feel… real good. Small but not in a bad way, or a weird way. Wanted. Safe.

When you’re back in bed, you curl up under the covers facing each other. He slings his leg over yours and kisses you, slow and sweet, draws a sigh out of you.

You indulge in that for a long time, until you’re sleepy-content and Griffin’s draped over you, pressing his lips indiscriminately to your lips and jaw and neck and shoulders. You run your fingers through his hair, eyes closed, just fuckin’ happy to be here.

“God, Griff,” you say, “this is — you’re — fuck.” Wow. Good job making words there.

Griffin laughs. “Yeah?”

“I _like_ you.”

“I like you too. You tired?”

“Kinda. Just happy, though, really, if I’m being honest.”

“Me too,” Griffin says. Kisses your cheek. Tucks his head under your chin, so he’s laying on your chest. You’re both still fully nude under the blankets, but neither of you seem to be pursuing it. You’re fine with that, really, content to be present with him with no further expectations.

You trace your fingertips along his spine, and he gives a pleased hum.

“Dumb question for you?” he says.

“Shoot.”

“Did you know I was into you, before?”

You huff out a laugh. “No, Griff, not even a little. I was at least seventy-five percent sure you were straight.”

“No shit?”

“Look, I try not to get my hopes up. Did you know about me?”

“I had my suspicions. Or hopes. Your thirsty wrestle tweets were a little bit of an indication that you probably were at least a little bit gay.”

“Good news! I’m one hundred percent gay.”

Griffin laughs and softly headbutts your chin. “Oh, good. Me too. Well, no, not actually, I’m bi, but I’m one hundred percent gay about you.”

You hug him tight, then sigh with a realization. “Hey, do you have any idea how dating coworkers works? Is there shit we have to do?”

“Ugh, probably,” Griffin says. “I’ll ask Justin. Want me to text him?”

“Sure,” you say, with as much of a shrug as you can with Griffin lying mostly on top of you. He rolls over and feels around for his phone, winds up on his belly propped up on his elbows. You scoot over to him, drape your arm over his back.

“Wait, are you actually sure?” Griffin says, as he pulls up the message app. “‘Cause if, like, if you’re not out or something —”

“I’m not _not_ out,” you say. “My family knows and stuff. I just keep it low-key, I guess, when it’s not directly relevant? If people assume I’m straight then that’s a them problem. So, yeah, go for it. You can tell Travis too, if you want. Or whoever. It’s all good.”

He smiles at you, and you rest your chin on the crook of his shoulder to watch him draft the message.

BRO YOUR OWN WAY  
  
Juice is there like a thing you have to do when you’re dating a coworker  
Justin  
Idk I’ll ask? Tara or Chris will know  
WAIT YOU SNUCK OFF WITH PATRICK IS THIS RELATED  
Wouldn’t you like to know!  
Justin  
Should I wait till I can talk to one of them privately to ask so people don’t ask questions  
That’s probably not a bad idea thank you  
Pat said I could tell you guys but we might be holding off on telling most ppl for now  
Travis  
OMG  
IM ASLEEP BUT OMG!!!!!!  
Thank you Trav  
Travis  
HAPPY FOR U GUYS GOOD NIGHT  
Justin  
I’M ALSO HAPPY FOR YOU FOR THE RECORD  
THANKS LOVE YOU GUYS  
PAT ALSO SAYS THANKS  


Eventually, he sets his phone aside to kiss you, slow and affectionate. You’re rapidly descending into sleepiness, but it’s so nice to exchange sweet lazy kisses with Griffin that you’d be more than willing to keep yourself awake all night to keep going. But there comes a point where there’s more lying still with your lips barely touching than kissing and you know neither of you are going to be able to stay up for much longer.

You’re not going to be the one to say that, though, because Griffin gives soft little exhales when you kiss him, and twirls your hair around his finger, and sometimes his eyes flutter open to give you a heavy-lidded pleased-contented look, and you never want it to end.

But eventually he heaves a sigh and rolls onto his back. You make a complaining noise and scoot towards him, put your arm over him and your head on his chest.

“I think we gotta sleep, baby,” Griffin says, and kisses the top of your head. “I’ll still be here in the morning, if you will be too.”

“I’m not planning to go anywhere,” you say, and put your leg over his for emphasis. He hums happily.

“Good. I think Juice ‘n I are getting breakfast tomorrow, but you’re welcome to come, if you want. He might tease a little but, y’know. Siblings.”

“I’ve got an older sister, I know the deal. I’d love to, if it’s alright.”

“Of course,” Griffin says. “Anytime.”

“You should come over tomorrow and meet my cat.”

“That sounds like a weird sort of proposition.”

“It is. But also you should meet my cat because he’s cute. I’m sleepy, okay, you can’t judge me for what I say.”

Griffin laughs. “Whatever you say, babe.”

“I’m gonna sleep,” you say, moving up so you can have your head on the pillow instead of on Griffin. “That’s what I say.”

“You’re silly,” he says, with such affection, and turns on his side to face you. “Good night, Patrick.”

“Good night, Griffin,” you whisper in response, and steal one last featherlight kiss before he reaches over to turn off the lamp. You close your eyes and snuggle under the blankets with a contented sigh.

As you drift off to sleep, you feel his arm settle over your waist, a soft kiss against your forehead, and your last waking thought is to press towards his warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> THE ORIGIN STORY REVEALED!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> @segmentcalled on twitter / comment if you req / comments deleted as requested!  
comments as always make the dream work and kudos are greatly appreciated ♥


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